


Drive Time

by ddagent



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Radio, Angst, F/M, Interior Decorating, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-13
Updated: 2016-03-13
Packaged: 2018-05-26 11:46:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,842
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6237358
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ddagent/pseuds/ddagent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Former CIA Agent Melinda May is having trouble adjusting to the real world. But she finds help in the form of radio DJ Phil Coulson.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Drive Time

**Author's Note:**

> I do not own Agents of SHIELD, its characters or settings. All belongs to Marvel and ABC.

****Sleep eluded her. Just like it had the night before, and the night before, and even the night before that. Her dark eyes snapped open, replacing the inside of her eyelids with the dim view of her ceiling. She just couldn’t sleep.

She’d tried everything, of course. Everything apart from the little bottle of pills shoved behind a box of antacids in her bathroom cabinet. Her windows, with their rotting sills, were locked tight. She’d bought heavy duty drapes to line her windows.  No light or sound from the outside world spilled into her bedroom. The antique clock, a house warming gift from her father, had been shoved under a heap of freshly laundered sheets. 

She had spent hours creating the perfect sleeping environment. And, yet, she still could not sleep. 

Rubbing her face, Melinda decided to abandon any further attempts at sleep. Soft feet padded to the bathroom. She ran the tap until the water ran clear, then she splashed a little on her face. Gripping the edge of the sink, knuckles turning white, Melinda stared into the spotted mirror in front of her. 

She resisted the urge to sink her fist into the reflection. 

When she’d had trouble sleeping before- _before,_ she had slipped out of the bed she’d shared with her husband and made some tea. Read a book. There was no one on the other side of that bed, now. Andrew was in D.C, over two hundred miles away. Melinda didn’t even know if she _had_ tea. Maybe she did. Maybe there was still a little bourbon left in the bottle. 

The stairs were as old and rotten as the rest of her house. She’d wanted a project; thought it might keep her mind occupied now she no longer had mission parameters and false identities and late night dead drops. There was little furniture. Her phone, for instance, was the only connection to the outside world. No TV, no laptop. It’s red light blinked offensively in the darkness of the house. 

“ _Melinda, it’s your mother. You have not returned my last three calls.”_

Click.

“ _Mellie, it’s your father. How’s the new house?”_

Click.

“Melinda? It’s Andrew.”

Click. 

There was no bourbon in the kitchen. No tea, either. Melinda poured herself a glass of tepid water and began preparing herself for whatever late night activity was on the docket for tonight. She used this time, the early hours of the morning, to scrub and clean and wash and rinse. All her new clothes, bought the day after she had left Langley, were washed and dried and folded once, twice, three times. Anything to keep busy. 

She decided, staring at that blinking light, to begin work on the hall. 

The previous owner had glued linoleum to the hallway floor, the vinyl yellowing with age and dust. Melinda got to work on her hands and knees, trying to pry up the hideous flooring. It would keep her busy, keep her mind on other things. She used a knife (store bought, brand new, her last one abandoned in a warehouse in Bahrain) to dig into the vinyl. It was hard, tough work. But it wasn’t enough. 

Then she remembered the radio. 

Another house warming gift from her father, Melinda had shoved it in one of the kitchen cupboards. She found it easily enough, checked the batteries and raised the aerial to catch the radio frequency. She twisted the knob on the top, searching for anything that would drown out her thoughts. Suddenly, something loud and grating began to blare out of the radio’s tiny speakers. 

“I don’t think so.”

Melinda tried again, finding a talk radio station. “... _now, you can’t say that President Ellis’ reforms are justified. I mean, who are you-”_

Her fingers jerked, tugging the knob away from that station. Politics wouldn’t help her. Melinda tried for a third station. Soft music began to filter out of the speakers; an old sixties rock and roll love song.  It reminded her of the tapes her father used to play in the car when he’d drive her to ice skating practice.  A reminiscent smile tugging at her lips, Melinda let the song play out. 

“ _And that was Bryan Hyland, with_ Sealed With a Kiss. _That’s a particular favourite of mine. Always reminds me of those long summers before school starts.”_

With the song over, Melinda was ready to find another station. But she liked his voice, the DJ. It was pleasant, charming. _Cheerful_ ; an oddity considering the earliness of the hour. 

“ _And if you’re just tuning in, this is SHIELD FM and I am your host Phil Coulson. We’re still trying to find a name for this show. I don’t know why ‘Cornflakes with Coulson’ wasn’t more popular.”_

Melinda snorted, shaking her head. She could stand to listen to him a little while longer. Putting the radio to one side, she picked up the knife once more. Melinda dug into the linoleum, easing up a particularly satisfying chunk of flooring. 

“ _Tonight’s theme is memories, reminiscing. What was the first song you ever heard on the radio? What was the first song you danced to? The first thing I ever heard on the radio was a bootleg copy of the_ Captain America Adventure Hour. _My Dad used to listen to a lot of sixties rock and roll in the car, so I heard a lot of that too. So how about, whilst I wait for your calls, we listen to some good ol’ Bobby Vee.”_

The DJ queued another song, _Take Care of my Baby_ crackling through the radio’s speakers. Melinda remembered that one too. With the music as background, Melinda kept up her assault on the old linoleum flooring. The DJ’s voice was pleasant, talking about old rock and roll and warm summers in Wisconsin. She really did like the sound of his voice. 

 _“Okay, well that sound means it’s coming up for six am. You know what that means...it’s_ Drive Time with Clint and Natasha _. Thank you for tuning in, listeners, and I’ll see you bright and early tomorrow morning.”_

As he played one final song, Melinda took a moment to catch her breath. She stood by her front door, surveying the path of destroyed linoleum behind her. She’d made it through the night. Melinda left the radio playing as she shuffled upstairs to take a shower. 

_\--_

_“I love the radio, always have. But sometimes it would be nice for you all to see me. Especially when I’m talking about cooking. I can share with you the great Coulson family recipes, but it’s always easier when you see someone walking you through it.”_

Melinda nodded absent-mindedly, reaching down beside the radio for her bucket and sponge. With the linoleum removed, it was now time for the walls. The wallpaper was faded; the bright flowery print lost to age. It peeled in corners, trapping dust and dead bugs. Melinda wet her sponge once, twice, and continued her task of wetting the walls. She scrubbed them, the damp smell assaulting her nostrils. She hated wallpaper. 

_“_ _It’s three am in New York City, and I want to hear all about your kitchen disasters. You made a meal for your significant other and gave them food poisoning? I want to hear about it. You set your apartment on fire and had to move into a hotel? I want to hear about it. Hell, if you paired the wrong bottle of wine with a meal, I want to hear about it. All lines are open.”_

A click on the radio, then the sound of another voice. Coulson practically leapt to talk to them. Eager and cheerful, even at three am, his voice was a warm breeze through her dilapidated house. Other than the mail man, he was the only voice she’d heard in three days. That didn’t scare her as much as it should. 

“ _Okay, run that by me again..._ how _did you manage to set the spaghetti on fire?”_

Melinda barked; the laugh feeling harsh against the back of her throat. She’d done that. The first time she’d cooked for Andrew. The spaghetti had burnt, the sauce had curdled, the meat had been undercooked. It had been a nightmare, she was lucky she hadn’t killed them both. He’d still married her, though, until... 

Melinda sucked in a breath. Her hands dug into the coarse texture of the sponge, and she focussed on the sounds of the radio. The caller was talking about how they’d left the pot unattended. Coulson chuckled, _such a warm laugh,_ as he sympathised with their plight. 

_“I did that with a pot of pasta sauce once. When my Mom came in, it looked like someone had been murdered on our stove. Thanks for calling in, Jack. Okay, next caller. What’s your name?”_

_“Name’s Joey. My Mom’s a good cook, thought it would run in the family. It did_ not. _I gave my boyfriend_ and _his parents food poisoning.”_

Ouch. Coulson made a similar sound. “ _God, Joey, what did you cook?”_

_“I wanted to make something that looked fancy, but was really simple? Seafood risotto.”  
_

_“Rookie mistake, Joey. Seafood is_ not _a good choice for beginners. Walk me through it, let’s hear what happened.”_

Melinda began to scrub the other wall as Joey explained how he hadn’t been sure how to cook the mussels properly, and that the shrimp has looked more grey than pink when he’d served them to his boyfriend and his parents. Melinda’s stomach turned at the thought. She finished the second wall as Coulson played a little smooth jazz.

Somewhere along the lines, Melinda didn’t even hear what Coulson was saying. Just the calm, upbeat tone of his voice was enough to keep her moving, keep her focussed. 

“ _Well, it’s that time again. Nearly six am, which means its time for_ Drive Time with Clint and Natasha. _Thank you for staying with me, listeners. And for Joey and all your amateur cooks out there, stay safe. Talk to you tomorrow, New York.”_

Dropping her sponge into her bucket, Melinda took stock of her efforts. The hallway walls were freshly scrubbed, ready to be painted. She wiped the sweat off her brow, taking a long breath. It looked good. As the early morning light streamed in through her front door window, Melinda decided to make a pot of tea.

\--

Paint. She needed paint. 

Unfortunately, she could not get paint during her night time sessions. For that, she would need to go out during the day. Drive out in her new car, find a DIY store, talk to cashiers and store assistants. This wasn’t a challenge. Breaking into a heavily armed compound, jumping out of a Boeing 717, _that_ was a challenge. But right now, going to Home Depot was like climbing Everest. 

But she needed the paint. 

Melinda wore her new clothes, the jeans stiff and shirt itchy. She locked her door behind her, a gold key with a solitary humorous key chain. Something normal, something _human._ She sat in the driver’s seat of her nondescript car, registered in her name for the first time in three decades. She’d be out half an hour. That’s it. _Just paint._

Out of habit, her fingers jerked towards the inbuilt radio. A pop music station, more talk radio, then finally SHIELD FM. 

“ _Okay, and that was_ Tainted Love _by Soft Cell, originally sung by Gloria Jones in 1964. Very different from the Marilyn Manson version.”_

He was on. Coulson was on the radio. _Why was he on?_

As if hearing her question, the DJ’s voice reverberated through the speakers. “ _And if you’re just tuning in, this is Phil Coulson, filling in for Tony Stark. Mister Stark, who does a business show every other Thursday, is...elsewhere. My money is on some little island in the middle of nowhere. So, sadly, you’re stuck with me for the next two hours.”_

It was if someone had known. Easing back in her seat, Melinda let the calm of the radio wash over her for a moment. Then she put the car in first and pulled off the drive. Coulson’s cheerful voice accompanied her on the journey to Home Depot. She pulled into the parking lot just as he finished playing the Blondie hit _The Tide is High._

All around her, people were acting as if this was perfectly normal. Even before, Melinda had never gone to Home Depot. She’d barely gone to the store. So she pushed a cart like she knew what she was doing, and kept her eyes to the floor. After a few wrong aisles she found the paint she needed. A light cream colour, perfect to showcase the light streaming in through her front door. She lifted the cans into the cart with ease, marvelling a couple of young boys watching behind their mother’s legs. Turning away, Melinda walked to the tills. 

“ _Okay, this is my new favourite group. They’re called_ The Overtones.  _They’re British, they sound good. It’s all modern covers of old classics. Listen to them, see what you think, call in and let us know.”_

There was a small radio just behind the girl on the till. She gave Melinda a wide smile as she scanned the first can of paint, then the second. “Cash or charge?”

“Cash.” Melinda teased a few crisp notes out from her pocket, handing them to the cashier. She gave a brisk nod in farewell, pushing the cart out of the store before the song ended. 

When she got back behind the wheel, Coulson was talking again. “ _So, the theme of today’s show is_ cover. _Cover bands, cover albums, cover at work...any substitute teachers on their lunch break? Call in, tell us what it’s like to cover for someone; or even to cover something up. No criminals, please, this is a family show.”_

Melinda kept the radio on all the way home, and even late into the evening as she began to paint her freshly scrubbed walls. She kept listening and painting until 2am; until she heard the familiar sound of Coulson’s jingle. Her paintbrush hesitated as she waited for him to speak. She didn’t start up again until she heard the first few bars of his opening record. 

\-- 

The hallway was done. Walls scrubbed and painted. New flooring; smooth and clean. The skirting boards were freshly glossed, and the heater was warm against her back. Melinda sat, eating a grilled cheese she had made, surveying her handiwork. It was the only space in the entire house that felt nice, new, whole. It was a start. 

“... _And that was Sharon with our hourly news update. Thank you, Sharon, glad to hear that someone else is up at this hour. It’s four am in New York City, the city that never sleeps. Surely_ someone _is awake.”_

Melinda bowed her head towards the radio, listening to Coulson’s voice crackle through the speakers. Even after the work was done, she’d wanted to listen to him. She wanted to hear his voice as she reaped the rewards of her efforts. He had been with her, through all of this. The floor, the walls, the paint. He’d been there when she’d hung that absurd painting her mother had given her; when she’d assembled the small table standing in her hallway. It was like he’d picked up a paintbrush himself. 

“ _What are you doing right now, New York? Are you grading papers, or writing a paper? Working the dawn shift at the bakery? Or can you just not sleep? Call in, all our lines are open. Tell me what you’re doing, New York. Tell me about your day.”_

With no more work to be done until she started the lounge tomorrow, Melinda’s dark eyes turned towards the phone. She didn’t relish the thought of returning to bed, to tossing and turning under freshly starched sheets. She wanted to hear his voice in her ear. She wanted to talk to someone. 

“ _You know the number, New York. Call me.”_

Her hand snaked out for the cordless phone. Her fingers shook as she pressed the buttons, pressing the device hard against her ear. Melinda pulled in a shaky breath, heart pounding as she waited for him to take her call. 

“ _Great, looks like someone is awake in New York City after all.”_

Melinda tuned out the sound of the radio, focussing solely on the phone pressed against her cheek. The ringing stopped, then a click, then _him. “Hi, caller, you’re on the air. What’s kept you up tonight?”_

Flinching, Melinda immediately pressed the _end_ button. Still clutching her phone, she heard the sound of her own call fizzling out on air. “ _Hopefully, caller, you’ve found something more interesting to do than listen to me tonight. For everyone else, here’s some Charles Mingus.”_

She wasn’t ready. Not yet. _Maybe tomorrow._ He would be there, on the radio, as he was every night. And she would be there, listening, trying to drown out the world, as she was every night. Maybe tomorrow. There was always tomorrow. 

Melinda realised that now. 


End file.
